


howl, howl

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [7]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Bird holding, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, One Shot, Other, Romance, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: Collection for short Destiny drabblesor,Requests : OPEN
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny), Saint-14 (Destiny)/Guardian, Saint-14 (Destiny)/Reader, The Drifter (Destiny)/Reader, The Drifter/Guardian (Destiny)
Series: set adrift [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1271177
Comments: 51
Kudos: 193





	1. saviour

**Author's Note:**

> Posting more Destiny-related fics including (2) from the previous list of requests. Leave a request below for a character(s) and/or prompt (see weather eye for examples)
> 
> If you'd like a longer or more personalized piece, find me on [my tumblr](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/) and let's talk :3  
> \---  
> also let's be real, this is just a gateway for me writing a piece with guardian dealing with drifter and saint-14 at the same time

When Saint-14 returns to the Tower for the first time in centuries, you are more than 200,000 miles away from Earth. You are still stationed at Eris’s side as she extracts secrets from the mysterious, silent Pyramid. But when the comm link crackles and announces his arrival, Eris simply turns her beautiful eyes to you and says, “Go.”

Perhaps she knew about the impossible task, perhaps she knew that you dove into the Sundial without a sliver of doubt to find the missing Titan. Perhaps she even admired the way you destroyed and derailed timelines to save the one. As Eris watches you leave, she trails her gloved fingers across her lost fireteam’s memorabilia, shakes her head, and delves deeper into the Pyramid’s promise.

Your nerves are electric when you approach the hangar. Dodging a flurry of snowballs, you trip over the lush, obsidian and gold-trimmed carpets already flecked with sunflower shells and seeds. The shining Titan looks up, then does a double-take. He’d been expecting another starstruck novice Guardian, not his rescuer. “It’s you!” Saint-14 gasps and he throws his arms around you in a crushing hug. His baritone voice brims with glee. “You are here!”

Laughing, you brace your palms against his chest as he withdraws, his arms lingering around your waist. “Of course,” you say, rapping your knuckles lightly on his helmet. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to welcome the greatest warrior home.”

He chuckles. “You may say this, but I remain in your shadow,” Saint replies softly without a trace of jealousy or malice. He covers your hands with his large, warm ones, oblivious to how bird seed finds its way into your sleeves and armor. “We shall be stronger, together. Maybe one day, I will finally be able to show appreciation for your belief in me.”

Saint-14 is a respite in this constant battle to survive and protect humanity. He lives up to his namesake. He is kind, virtuous, and _good_. You would tell him this again and again whenever he falters and thinks of his failed attempts. You see him bowed over the Speaker’s body, sobbing loudly in the quiet of his old quarters, and he seeks comfort in the one who saved the Traveler.

It is the Dawning when Saint-14 proudly presents you with a present: A shimmering, lavender ribbon, which he promptly ties around your bicep like a Warlock Bond. He looks at you like one of his pigeons, inquisitive and attentive. He keeps an eye out for this flash of violet, violent color across the Crucible Handler’s screens or in the rowdy variety of Gambit veterans.

In the early morning hours, the birds wake and emerge from the crevices of the Last City. Saint-14 sometimes rises with them, too, but he is surprised to see you already waiting at his usual spot. You’re feeding a few pigeons with whatever seeds have collected in your boots. At last, Saint sees the chance to show you something more thrilling than a breathless victory.

“Do not squeeze,” he warns as he drops a small, gray bird into your hands. “And if you are lucky, and quiet, it may fall asleep.”

Saint sees you bite your lip to contain a laugh. And he thinks, as his gaze follows the shape of your mouth, that his admiration has transformed into nameless thing, a desperate craving for more. Your lavender ribbon twirls in a calm breeze; he dimly wishes you wore more of the royal colors. When the bird squirms, you unfurl your fingers and allow it to join its flock. While the sun has yet to breach the horizon, Saint-14 removes his helmet.

“Saint--”

“It is still dark,” he says, then takes your hand and presses it to his warm cheek. “No one is awake to see my face.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I dreaming?”

“I am, or I should be,” he replies. “What am I, to the Guardian who rescued me from a Lightless death? I am… indebted, in awe, to my _savior_.”

“Oh, Saint,” you sigh, and he drops to his knees. Reverent. Enamored. His eyes shut when he feels your lips press against the multitude of scars across his ruined face, and under your soft, radiant touch, he feels blessed.


	2. seal our fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but oh, my heart was flawed  
> I knew my weakness  
> \- Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons

When Drifter first meets you, he is content to call you the “hero”, or whatever that means nowadays.

And he would be satisfied to keep distant from the other side of an entire system or a looking glass. It didn’t make sense to get closer, Drifter tells himself, because you wielded the Light like a torch while he stewed in the dark.

Months pass, Gambit flourishes, and heroism continues grace your presence. Prophecies and promises spill from your lips like an overflowing goblet, and although he jokes about trust and pickin’ up a crew, he knows that you are the City’s champion, not his salvation. Not that he expected anything less than basic manners from someone as prim and proper as--

\--you, as you appear silently at the threshold of his small, insignificant quarters aboard the _Derelict_. Silently studying the calm blizzard encircling the frozen arboretum, dancing on alien plant growths that, hopefully, remain dormant until the end of the world. A few snowflakes linger on your gold-trimmed robes, then evaporate from the Solar in your veins.

Drifter jerks to attention, accidentally singing his fingertips with the exposed circuitry of some broken tech on his table. “Some warnin’ next time, huh?” he huffs, setting down the tools. “ _Derelict’s_ suppos’d to be off-limits after-hours.”

You nod at the malfunctioning device. “Is that Vanguard property?” you ask, pointedly looking at the logo printed on its side.

The rogue Lightbearer scoffs and then throws a rag over the tech. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

The corners of your lips twitch in a smile as his bravado fails to intimidate. A few steps forward and suddenly you’re much closer than he might have liked. Close enough for a handshake or a knife between the ribs. “Relax, Drifter,” you say, casting your gaze across the wall of trophies, then back to him. Cabal helmets and Eliksni skulls are common souvenirs for an active Guardian. “I just came to talk.”

Drifter’s heart hammers in his chest. “Yeah? About what?”

Your hand goes to your side-- _there it is,_ Drifter thinks, and he reflexively grabs your wrist. In an instant, your other palm’s splayed against his chest with Light bleeding from your fingertips and Drifter digs the barrel of his hand canon firmer against your side. He has the upper hand, and with that victory, he realizes that if you’d meant to kill him, he would be dead already. “Relax,” you say again, voice softer. Like taming a wild beast that’s been cornered. From your pocket, you pull out a pendant of twisting serpents on a loose red string. Ripped from someone’s neck, alive or dead. “I want a spot on your crew.”

Drifter blinks hard. “You-- _what_?”

He feels your fingers tense, and suddenly the confidence and assurance in your figure seems to dissipate like smoke. “I thought--” you falter, then force the rest of the words out-- “I thought you were looking for the best Guardians to join your crew. I’ve been waiting for the invitation but if I’m not good enough, I’d rather hear it from you.”

Drifter releases his grip but keeps a gentle, light touch on your wrists. “It’s not that,” he tells you. “If you weren’t busy killin’ gods, you would be my first pick. I just figured, y’know, that someone like you wouldn’t bother joining my crew.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re kiddin’, right?” he chuckles. “Hell, I’m the one scratchin’ my head, wonderin’ why you want to shack up with ol’ Drifter. But…”

“But what?” you press, leaning forward. Close enough for a hug or a blade to the throat. Drifter can practically feel the Light broil under your skin with your every slight motion. You are a nuclear bomb in his shack, and he has no idea whether to keep you nearby or return you to the other side of the looking glass. Your presence is literally raw, untapped potential. Elegant and poised. Balanced. It’s intoxicating to someone like the Drifter who chases sanctuary like the ocean tides does to her moon.

Drifter exhales slowly. “You’re the city’s Chosen One,” he says. The Lightbearer steps back and shakes his head. “As much as I’d like to ride with you, we’re on different paths. Destiny, if you believe in that shit.”

“I still don’t understand,” you say stubbornly. “I want this. I choose _this_.”

“You choose to be shunned by the Vanguard? Hunted by men like Shin Malphur? Think about it, hero,” Drifter growls. “You want to risk everything just for a taste of Darkness?”

He expects you to slink back to the Tower with your tail between your legs. Maybe you’d go save another planet from the brink of destruction. Instead, Drifter is pinned to the wall of his quarters and you dig your palm against his chest again, this air crackling with ozone and heat. “Fuck destiny,” you say, and Drifter can’t help but laugh.

Drifter _likes_ this side of you. No more charades of virtue and selflessness. He wants you to be selfish, he wants the Guardian who is ambitious and ready to the ride with the devil. His grin is all teeth. “You wanna see the end of everything?” he asks breathlessly. “You gonna be ready for that?”

A moment’s silence sneaks in between the banter, and it’s just the snowfall, the low buzz of electric lights, and the two of you breathing hard, close enough for-- Your eyes drop down to his lips, then back up to his burning blue gaze. His hands find their way to your waist. His old gloves are stuffed somewhere in his bunk, and he feels the smooth fabric of your robes under his calloused, burnt fingers.

You bring your mouth close to his ear and say softly, “I want your apocalypse, Drifter.”

He smiles. “You’ll have it.”


	3. a million lies, a single truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose requested the drifter & guardian's thoughts on marriage/eternal bond/if they'd do it together?
> 
> ROSE THANK YOU FOR BEING SO PATIENT <3 I took the idea of marriage and tossed in a bit of love confessions :>

Its ruined voice, the creature explains, is the work of another Guardian. “Like you,” it croaks, “but not the same.” The peddler huddles close to the cavern’s walls and melts away as soon as your gaze goes elsewhere. Suddenly, it takes your hand, and presses a small coin in your palm. Its touch is gentler than you’d anticipate from a being encompassed in shadow and riddles.

You observe the gift with unabashed confusion. “What is this?”

“Breathe deep,” it whispers, “Breathe to the last.”

When you look up, burdened with even more questions than answers, Xur has vanished.

You’d forgotten about the mysterious trinket until you crossed paths with the man who called himself the Drifter. He arrived at the Tower by his own free will and cunning disposition, spouting adages about the end of the worlds, Light, and Darkness, y’know, like the ramblings of a madman. With your mind and heart caught in the vice-like grip of Cayde-6’s death, the Drifter pulls you into his gambit.

And while he yammers on and on about Darkness, he tosses a disturbingly familiar jade coin around. He has several: one for each faction of enemies, Cabal, Fallen, Vex, etc.

You do not know the symbol on your jade coin, but when you show it to the rogue, he staggers back as if he’d been shot point-blank. His shoulders pull back and he shuts his eyes tight. Then the Drifter passes a shaking hand over his pale face, opens his blazing blue eyes, and then laughs.

“Caught their attention, huh?” he says.

He doesn’t owe you anything.

At least, that’s what Drifter tells himself.

He doesn’t have to advocate for your security and safety, nor does he have an obligation to save you. Nonetheless, you’re the closest, sane connection to the Nine and Drifter needs every weapon, intelligence, or ally against them. If you can help him save Orin, whether or not you realized or wanted it, he will use any advantage within reach.

Except Drifter goes and screws it all up when he doesn’t distance himself, when he reprises history.

He once watched a Sunbreaker dive into these premonitions.  _ Can the Nine show us a way out of the system? _ He had asked.  _ Could they grant us more power? Are they stronger than the Traveler’s Light? _ Orin saw potential and promise wielded by the unknown, and she answered his questions.

You did not share these visions as easily. So Drifter does what he does best: He coaxes these secrets with his gallows humor, cracks jokes over drinks, and gains your favor. He monologues about his expeditions in starvation, and even though half of what he says is fueled by delirium, his tales have you doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Drifter stands, aiming finger guns at an imaginary enemy, and says, “Now I know I’ve got a Thresher somewhere in this forest, so I take one more look at this Psion, kill it, and then book it as fast as possible. Half a mile west, suddenly I see a camp of Risen.” Drifter takes a long draft from his drink, drags a sleeve across his mouth, and then rounds on you.

He braces his hands on either side of your chair and leans down until he can stare you right in the eye.

“Did you know that Shaxx used to be a Warlord? Part o’ the reason why he and Saladin have a big feud between them. They had different ideas when it came to running the world. Might’ve been easier to divide everything into territories. This piece of land, mine. This other one, that’s yours.” His eye twitches, and then a wolf-like smile crawls across his face. “Guardians can be so possessive when it comes to weapons and shit.”

You tilt your head up slightly and he can hear your breath hitch in your throat. The taste of moonshine is strong in the back of his throat; it makes him feel slow and lax. He can count the number of people he’d trust when he’s drunk on one hand, and those numbers are dwindling. He might’ve killed a few.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?” Drifter asks, voice scratchy. “Wanna, uh, bury the past, melt your weapons, live in peace and harmony?”

“Guardians don’t retire,” you chuckle softly. “Maybe they’ll find someone to love. But I don’t think they stop fighting.”

“So--” he leans closer-- “do they ever get happy endings?”

If you had an answer, Drifter would have liked to hear it. But your lips are suddenly on his, and just like that, he’s hooked on the feeling of you in his arms. Drifter yanks you into his lap as he sits down, and he plants a column of bristling kisses down your throat. Your hands twist in his soft, wavy hair, and he listens to the way you gasp and whimper under his rough touch.

The Lightbearer steals your breath with a deep, passionate kiss, and then he presses his scarred cheek against yours, breathing heavily. “Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head furiously. “No,” you whisper. “It’s--it’s perfect.”

Just like that, everything falls apart.

The Emissary comes to visit Drifter, and she calls him  _ Dredgen, _ the echoes of  _ Wu Ming _ reverberating off the walls. Her arrival dredges up all sorts of memories for him. Trust. Betrayal. Regret. He remembers how he’d begged her to reconsider this search for death and killers. How she’d rejected his pleas, how he’d angrily left her to this fate.

He doesn’t confess until it’s too late: When you have an invitation to meet with the Nine in one hand, and that damn jade coin in the other. So Drifter steps between you and the  _ Derelict  _ portal. “This ain’t a good idea,” he tells you. “Somethin’ about all this doesn’t seem right.”

“You encouraged me to seek out the Nine, Drifter,” you say, brow furrowed.

“I know, I know. I’ve just been thinkin’.”

“There’s nothing in this system that rivals the Nine. I have to go--”

Drifter grabs your hand-- the one with the coin. “This? This symbol? It’s not good.” He’d caught glimpses of these Pyramids long before he met you. “You’re no match for it.”

“Drifter, we agreed--”

“And I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

He’s still holding your wrist. Drifter frantically thinks for a reason, for an explanation for his perspective.

Your gaze drifts over to the Haul. “Asking me to stay doesn’t fix what happened with Orin.”

“It’s-- it’s not just about her,” he croaks. “I’m worried for you, and I-- I want you--”

“To stay?”

“Yes. Yes, to stay. But-- I want you to stay, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.” He guides your hand over to his chest, where the two of you can feel the way his heart hammers against his ribs. “I think I love you, Guardian.”

Your voice is faint. “You love me?”

“I-- I want to come home to you. I wanna make a home with you.” Drifter shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead. Your other hand rests on his bearded jawline, feather-light and kind. “I ain’t the most honorable man in the system, Guardian, but I can be good for you. Hell, I’ll try and make friends with your Vanguard if it matters to you.”

You laugh and shake your head in disbelief. “Drifter, I-- I mean, it’s in your name. You would pledge yourself to me?”

“Darlin’, all you have to do is ask.”


	4. little wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SpiceTeaAndSugar requested more sweet Saint-14, with Saint singing our Guardian to sleep while holding them :3

The Titan arrives at the Farm, alone, and he wanders with little direction until you cross paths with him.

There is a moment of hesitation as the two of you eye each other. You recognize the famous helm, but not the violet ribbons draped across his silver armor. His towering height and broad shoulders practically dwarf your more limber figure. Polished armor does little to camouflage in the dark earthy tones of the European Dead Zone.

And then the Titan sticks out his gloved hand in greeting. “Saint,” he introduces himself with a disarming, relaxed demeanor, as if the cavernous dents and slashes on his armor are merely cosmetic. His deep, rumbling voice resembles the accent of Old Russian descendants, albeit thicker and more pronounced. “Are you the Guardian in charge here?”

You shake hands with him. “No Guardian's in charge. I make security rounds through the camp, but I mainly provide support.” The Ghost hiding behind your shoulder, and the shared Light connection implies exactly what kind of support you facilitate.

“Perfect,” says Saint, “because I am quite lost. I am looking for the Cryptarch, Tyra Karn.” You crook a few fingers and he obediently follows, his large helmet panning back and forth to admire the Farm. A few children chasing each other pause to stare at the stranger, and Saint waves at them. “I like the quiet,” he rumbles. “It reminds me of the first camps, when we were still shrouded in the Dark Ages. But it is safer now. Easier.”

The way he reminisces reminds you of Lord Saladin.

You bring him to the small courtyard where Tyra Karn does her work, and watch as he knocks boldly on her door. It swing opens and the color seems to drain from the Cryptarch’s face when she sees Saint. He gently grasps her hand and kisses the back of it. “Miss Karn,” he greets.

“Saint,” Tyra whispers, touching the marred craters on his helm. “I thought you’d died. Osiris said--”

“Osiris does not know everything,” Saint chuckles.

Now, you don’t claim to be the smartest or brightest Guardian. You were stationed at the Farm in case of intermittent attacks from the Fallen or the Red Legion, not part of the Praxic guild or one of Ikora’s Hidden. But the pieces start to fall into place as Tyra and Saint pick up conversation from generations ago. You also see the ancient numerals etched on the silvery weapon strapped to his back, _XIV_ , and the Ghost whispers into your ear, “I think that’s Saint-14.”

The truth about his identity ripples throughout the community. He’s a legend walking side-by-side with civilians and children alike, listening and talking and participating with those around him. Saint-14 has never been a stranger to fame. But he finds you again after a whirlwind of clamoring attention, arms folded across your chest, as you look out towards the old harbor.

“I must admit,” Saint-14 says as he idles at your side, “I was surprised that you did not recognize me.”

“I woke later than most Guardians. You were a myth. A name mentioned in passing by Osiris or his disciples. Some even claimed they found your body in the Infinite Forest.”

“If it were not for Guardians like you, I most certainly would have remained a myth.” Saint-14 glances over his shoulder, and then back to the harbor. You risk a glance at the war-like silhouette of his helm. He speaks surprisingly gentle for someone so famously known as a warmonger. His gaze tracks the path of water fowl skimming across the lake. “With your permission, I would like to come back here.”

“Why--?”

“You know the people better than I do,” the Titan says. “You show comradeship with them. I am a stranger. But I would like to learn more from you.”

When his ribbon-clad, shining ship crests the horizon and returns to the fog, you watch from the tower post, camouflaged cloak wrapped tightly around you. Part of you thinks that he’ll forget about this quiet place. The Vanguard paid little attention to the self-sustaining Farm. And if Saint was anything like Lord Saladin or Osiris, he would focus his energy on the Guardians, not the people themselves.

But Saint-14 returns. Once, to exchange Dawning gifts with Tyra Karn. Another time to learn more about the joint FOTC-militia operations. He studies how you participate in silence, standing next to the leaders with a neutral expression on your face.

“If you are to support them,” asks Saint afterwards, as he joins the evening patrol, “Why do you not say anything? There are alternative, perhaps better methods of defenses.”

You shoulder your porcelain-white sniper rifle and extend a helping hand over a smooth, eroded boulder. The well-trodden path traces the outskirts of the campgrounds, around the private residences, and through a recently cleared territory. “I am only a Guardian,” you tell him.

He tilts his head. “I do not understand.”

“It is… difficult to offer my advice, Saint. They understand their own advantages because their risks are not the same as ours. At the end of the day, it is not about winning the battle with cunning or brevity. For them, it is about survival.”

The two of you come upon the reclaimed area, bullet shells and Eliksni shock rifles littered randomly on the ground. The ring of your sniper rifle echoes dully in your memory when you recall the slow dance of _exhale_ and _recoil_.

And then a howl pierces the cold air, drawn out in a lonely, melancholy keen.

“I’ve not heard wolves in a long time,” Saint remarks softly. “I forget how beautiful they sing.”

The Titan often measures affection and respect in songs. _Paeans._ Whether this stems from his beliefs or experiences, you are unsure, but the children scream his name, and their voices are like peals of bells. He drinks in their praise like the forest thrives on sun or the blossoms for spring.

The War Beast takes you by surprise.

It stalks through the brush, silent as it creeps unnoticed past the militia troops wholly focused on the Cabal troops. The Ghost shouts a warning too late-- then the serrated, dagger-like fangs sink into your arm. The creature drags you away from the sniper post. Its teeth saws through your armor, ripping and tearing its way to your skin and sinew. You jam your other hand against the Beast’s throat and blinding lightning webs out like a fist. The bolts glance off the metallic scales but you scream and pour your Light until the Cabal hound’s skin begins to scorch and char and turn into black ash.

Then shotgun shells blast into the hound’s side and Saint-14, with one hand, lifts the dying Beast and throws it to the side. He immediately kneels, holsters the weapon, and carefully threads his arms underneath your body. Saint shouts something to a FOTC captain while your adrenaline and exhaustion overtake your senses. Your bleeding forearm leaves a messy smear along his armor and the Ghost starts to cast a healing light over you.

As the pain ebbs away, you hazily watch the surroundings fade back into familiarity. The shrieks of Cabal and Beasts slip away and Saint-14 glances down at your groggy expression. “I will take you to the medbay,” he says.

“No need. There’s a quiet place… next to the harbor,” you say hoarsely. “I just need… to rest.”

The Ghost flits ahead and leads him to the small clearing tucked between the downstream and the dock. Saint helps you down and studies the half-healed wound. Useless strips of armor flitter to the ground, flecked with yours and the Beast’s blood. “The damage is fiercer than I expected,” he observes.

“I had it handled,” you say with a weak grin.

Saint chuckles. “I like your smile,” he says with candor, as always. “Lie down. You will rest easier.” Instead, you lean your weight against his chest, keeping your arm cradled to the side. You complain that his shoulders and arms are too spiky and Saint-14 agrees with the sentiment. The mechanical rise and fall of his chest reassures the disquiet in your mind, and your breath slowly matches Saint-14’s own calm. 

A Cabal Thresher roars overhead, racing away from the site of the battlefield as a few ships chase them. “It will be a victory for the people,” says Saint. "I understand when you speak about their mortality. And their willingness to live."

After a moment’s silence, he hums a simple, haunted melody that tempts your eyes to close. You have never heard Saint sing, but his low voice is like the touch of rough wood under your palms.

“ _Baju-bajuški-baju,_ ” he croons, “ _ne ložisja na kraju._ ”

 _Sleep well my baby, sleep my darling._ _  
_ _Don't lie down by the edge_

The song embrace you like a long-lost memory. Even with a few words in a language that you do not know, you understand why he seeks the potential in music. “Are you asleep, Guardian?” he asks.

Eyes shut, you make a noise in the back of your throat. “Mhm. No. What is that song?”

“Ah. I do not remember exactly, but it is about a little wolf. It steals you from the bed, and takes you away. It is a lullaby.” His fingers, thick and short, carefully trail down your unhurt arm like the gentle wind carving its way through golden fields. Saint sees worship in music-- but he sings to you, why? This is a song meant for bedtimes and restless children. Perhaps sensing your stress, he asks, “Do you like it? I can sing something else.”

The corners of your lips pull into a small smile. “I like the song. I like your voice more. You should sing more often.”

“I can.” And then you feel Saint-14 gently press the cheek of his helm against your temple. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Baju-bajuški-baju](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9wrGmsJMw4) \- Russian Lullaby


	5. what we've lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March-moon requested a fic where Drifter and the guardian clash over the latter's discoveries about him ft. a guardian who goes by he/him pronouns!  
> \---  
> this request was made over at [my tumblr](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/)! feel free to reach out if you'd like to commission a longer or more personalized piece :>

The Guardian’s footsteps are as silent as his shadow, fleeting and immaterial, and he passes through the long grass stalks. With each step, the weight of the hand canon on his hip grows heavier and heavier.

You pay no attention to the layered, hated whispers from the Thorn. It’d been melted with the heat of a righteous fury, and then carefully restored by your own hands. Whatever sacrilege you bring upon yourself has yet to reveal itself.

You come upon the hidden campsite tucked precariously on the side of a cliff face. Months ago, Shin Malphur had made his reappearance in the EDZ, and it coincided with the charred penumbra scattered across the ruined grounds. Toeing aside a partially collapsed tent, you begin to search the wreckage for notes or documents. Anything to explain the Sorrow. Spiders scuttle away to find new sanctuary while you sift through unopened food rations and leftover armor repair kits.

The Thorn hums louder and louder until it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore. Sighing, you unholster and grasp the hand canon in both hands. Another deep breath leaves a lingering taste of ozone in the back of your throat. “Do you crave a storm?” you whisper to the weapon, noting the wisps of corrupted Light passing through your fingers. “Can you want, or desire?”

It does not reply, but unease settles like the clouds on the horizon.

At some point, you’d nodded off while cradling the hand canon in your lap. When you wake up, it’s to the crash of thunder and the sudden pelting of freezing rain against your face. You don’t remember taking off your helmet. But you rub your eyes wearily and squint against the torrentus weather.

A lightning bolt streaks through the skie and momentarily illuminates the campsite-- and the man standing at the edge of the cliff, his back to you, hair matted by the rain. Fear paralyzes your muscles and then instinct kicks in as you push yourself up and aim the Thorn at him.

“You’re awake, then,” the man says, turning slightly to look at you. He sounds bored or disinterested. The next flash of lightning paints features in the darkness: a thick, bearded face with a crooked nose and heavy-lidded eyes. He brushes away the black hair slick against his forehead. “I wondered if the storm would wake you.”

“Drifter?” you stammer, lowering the gun.

The rogue waves his hand and chuckles. “No, no, keep it up. For all you know, I’m the bad guy.” In the next moment, the humor has fled his voice and his bright eyes narrow in mistrust. “You walkin’ with the Shadows of Yor?”

The Thorn no longer points at him but the stable grip on the weapon suggests your wariness. It would be nice to drop your guard but this is not the Tower. This is not a safe place to start battles. Right now, the Drifter circles the campground like a ravenous wolf. The nighttime makes him look gaunt and hollow, etching deeper shadows into his remarkable scars.

A lightning strikes. It draws your attention to the gun at his side.  _ Trust. _

“I’m not a Shadow,” you say, shifting to mirror his movement. Your boots whisper against the dead leaves and ashen soil. He knows this place intimately, too. He knows that death lingers. “The Thorn was scrap metal when I found it. Burnt to a crisp.”

“Like your friends.”

“Not my friends. Not a Shadow.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Drifter rests a hand on his holstered hand canon and then shrugs. “Let’s cut to the chase, kid. I know you’d been lookin’ around. Askin’ questions.” His thin lips draw back in a half-grimace, half-smile. “You’ve got a real mad-on for findin’ the truth, even if it ain’ healthy for you.”

He doesn’t pay attention to the thunderstorm, or how the wind beats against the two of you with stinging rain. You realize that he’s missing his shoulder pauldrons and headband. The Drifter looks both vulnerable and fearless at the same time. Your shoulders slowly drop and the Thorn pulses angrily. It keens for the same bloodshed and hellfire which served as its crucible.

“Why are you scared?” you ask him.

The Lightbearer scowls. “My business is none of yours,” he snaps, taking an aggressive step forward. Thorn rises instinctively; its sharded surface barely grazes against his broad chest. Drifter does not flinch. “I  _ know  _ you were on my ship earlier. Was it Aunor who told you to investigate? Ikora?”

“I am not your enemy, Drifter,” you tell him, wishing to lower the weapon despite how it screams at you. “I swear, I haven’t shared anything with anyone. I only wanted to learn more about you.”

“Why?” he demands.

“The same reason for why I restored Thorn. Or why I do most things. I want to understand.” You take a step back. Drifter does not follow, but listens. “I want to know about the scars on your face. Or why the Emissary talks about you, or why she shows me visions. And why you work with both the Vanguard and Shadows and--”

Drifter cocks his head. Confused or curious. Eventually, the Lightbearer finally relaxes his stance. The storm had calmed but your clothes are completely drenched by this point. “I don’t take kindly to strangers digging into my past.” He wipes rain from his eyes. “For you, hero, I might make an exception. Swear that you won’t make me regret this. Swear on your Ghost.”

“I swear.”

He passes a hand over his face again, and sighs. “You…”

“--understand,” you finish for him. “Yeah, I know that you’re a paranoid sonuvabitch. Would you really kill me?” You ask this jokingly but if experience is worth anything, you wouldn’t be able to trust Drifter’s answer.

Drifter’s smile is all teeth. “Nah.”

You holster Thorn-- and it goes willingly, quietly, for an unknown reason-- and extend a hand. “Eli.”

He winces. “Hey, hey, careful where you sling that name around.” Despite this, he looks like many lifetimes of secrets have lifted from his shoulders. How long has it been since someone spoke his real name? Drifter grasps your forearm and tilts his head with grudging respect. “From now on, I’m relyin’ on you, hero. We’re partners. And if things go south, I’ll hunt you down like the degenerate you are.”

You smile. “See you in Gambit.”


	6. if secrets were like saints (1/2)

When asked, Saint-14 does not know how to describe the taste of lavender.

The floral flavor seems to escape all of his attempts as he receives baskets after baskets of lavender ribbon cookies shaped like his helmet. He knows the difference between crisp and chewy, and the perfect mix of salt and sweet, but he decides that it is better to savor the Dawning gifts than to ponder over their nature. And though he adores his first winter at the Last City, the snowfall eventually slows, and so does the influx of sweets gifts.

But every so often, even as spring blossoms and summer broils, Saint finds a plate of helmet cookies waiting on his lecterns.

He knows your kindness as the Guardian who shattered time, and the Guardian who sprinkles dark chocolate shavings on top of the baked goods.

Saint rarely has the chance to catch you red-handed, his mind and hands often occupied with maintaining and learning Osiris’s latest discoveries. He has not seen the exiled Warlock in too long, and he longs for his company. Osiris’s symbol, his gleaming eye, beckons from every corner of his hangar space. Sometimes Saint finds himself drowning in its gaze.

On the eve of the Festival of the Lost, Saint browses a tablet of scanned images and documents from Brother Vance. Even in the cool evening, sheltered inside his ship, he can imagine the heat of simply walking on Mercury’s surface. He hears voices outside and he cranes his head to peer out the window. He’s not in the mood for visiting Guardians, especially not at this hour.

“...y’know it’s the wrong holiday, right?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“That’s besides the point.”

“Stop pouting, Drifter.” You slide the plate of lavender ribbon cookies on the lectern. Turning, you see the Lightbearer has his arms folded across his chest. “There. I’ve delivered the cookies. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“This place is too… open.” His frosty blue eyes scan the surroundings. Though it offers a beautiful view of the mountains and the smoking remains of the Almighty, there is no security. A dozen Guardians couldn’t stop a Cabal Thresher from ramming its way into the docking bay. At least the Annex had only one hangar available.

“Good thing we got this guy stationed here.” It takes Saint a moment to realize that you’re talking about him. He inwardly smiles. “I’m thanking him for his service.”

“For crying out loud, are those cookies in the shape of his head?”

“Don’t you dare touch them--”

There’s suddenly a light scuffle followed with laughter. Yours, unrestrained and joyous; his, stifled and hoarse. “All right, all right, I yield,” Drifter wheezes. “Can we go back to where it’s safe and sound?” 

Saint sees the two shadows outside weave and dance out of sight. Underneath all the bravado, Saint hears the paranoia in the Drifter’s voice. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he seeks safety in the Guardian. You are stability and power and everything the Drifter craves in his future. Saint looks down and realizes that his fingers are gripping the edge of his writing desk tightly. He quickly lets go, but his jaw tightens at the unmistakable dents in metal.

* * *

When Saint craves the company of the Sunsinger, it is something like nostalgia. He misses the days when the two of them would bicker and banter, and push and pull like the ocean tide. While he was famous for a ferocious strength, Saint was the respite to Osiris’s blazing temper. Now they see each other on occasion, though overshadowed by constant threats, the ache is not too terrible.

But when you show up at his ship, one hand clinging to the ladder and the other on a plate of cookies, he does not understand this wounded feeling.

“Permission to come aboard, sir?” you ask. Saint extends a hand and practically lifts you inside the silver ship. 

“You do not have to ask,” the Titan rumbles and gives you a warm hug. The cool steel of his bruised helmet presses against your cheek. You press the plate in his hands and he sighs dramatically. “At this rate, I will not have enough storage for all of your gifts.”

“I’m just trying to beat the Dawning rush,” you laugh. A Festival mask hangs from your belt. Strands of cobwebs stick to your boots. “And this time it’s different. I have a message for you.” You pull a piece of paper from subspace and set it down on his desk as he shuffles over to his makeshift kitchen, littered with various pot and pans. Multi-colored ribbons drape from the ceilings and vents.

“From whom?”

“The raggedy man.”

Saint glances back. “What does he have to say?”

You drum your fingers on the folded note. “The message isn't for me.” Your fingers skate along the table and Saint prays that you do not see the dents as a lapse of his judgement. He leans against the desk, picks up the paper, and squints at the writing. Contrary to your words, you peek over his arm and Saint playfully bats you away.

“He asks for spare parts. I think. His handwriting is atrocious.”

You laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

Saint sets down the note and looks at you. “I… heard the two of you outside my ship. I did not mean to eavesdrop.”

You offer a slight grin. “You heard him complaining about not getting cookies?” You flick a hair out of your face and cant your eyes elsewhere on the ship interior. “To be honest, the ingredients of chocolate motes are difficult to find. And it gives me an excuse to visit you. The Annex is too far away sometimes.”

You look up at Saint. He towers over you, obviously, but past the worn helmet you sense a forlorn gaze. His soft exhale is like a purring engine. “Do you trust him?” he asks gently. He does not like that you hesitate or how you twist your fingers together nervously. Saint looks away. “I will not press for answers.”

“Saint, I-- I want to trust him.” you say after a moment. “People say the Drifter isn’t a good man, but I think he can be. I guess I feel _hope_ for him. Does that make sense?”

He nods. “I understand this. He is not yet lost.” Saint tilts his head. “You will keep an eye on him, yes?”

To his surprise, you reach over and cover his hand with yours. He dwarfs you in every way imaginable, but the calm which resonates from you is staggering. Saint once more feels the emptiness in him, longing and abject. You are novocaine-- no, you are comfort. Solace.

You squeeze his hand. “Don’t be a stranger, Saint.”

He is at a loss for words, so he simply nods and watches you exit the ship.

* * *

In the margins of Osiris’s notes on the Sundial is the annotated writing of a madman. He writes sloppily and smears the ink before it dries; but Saint admits, his ravings are as intelligent as some of the Gensym scribes and philosophers.

So when he compares the handwriting to the Drifter’s request, Saint is bemused and shocked to recognize similarities. He’d no idea that the Sundial wielded an aspect of Ascendant power, nor the extent of the Drifter’s assistance. Thinking that Osiris reached out to the rogue Lightbearer raises a whole host of questions. What would either want from the other?

Saint-14 finds himself at the entrance to the Annex with the note grasped tightly in his hand.

Someone touches his elbow. “Did you get lost?” you joke.

“I would like to speak with the raggedy man,” Saint says.

“I was just on my way to see him. He’s on the Derelict.” You hold out your Ghost and it blinks questioningly at the Titan. “What’s the occasion?”

“I have questions.”

You raise your eyebrows but say nothing. The Ghost transmat the two of you out of the Tower and to the hulking mass known as the Drifter’s Derelict. Saint does not enjoy the cold sensations seeping through the floors and walls of this space craft. Strange noises hail from the depths and the shimmering Haul beckons tantalizingly. He wonders why someone as bright as you walk with ease through these halls. When his stride falters, you take his hand and lead him further into the frozen home.

The Drifter’s bunker is a shipping container nestled in snow and unusual flora; it is a wild and unwelcome contrast from the branding heat of Mercury. Saint feels as if the walls are closing in on him. Drifter’s paranoia about the large, open hangar echo in the back of his mind. The rogue Lightbearer hunches over his worktable. “What’s with the plus one, Guardian?” he asks without looking up.

“He’s got questions. I’ve got time.”

Saint steps forward and the two size each other up. The Drifter narrows his crafty gaze, unable to pierce the silver and amethyst helm. “You here about Osiris?” Drifter says. “Wonderin’ why he came lookin’ for me?”

“Osiris does not study the Taken,” Saint explains. “His notes on the Sundial suggest that you assisted him.”

The Drifter waves a hand. “I’m good at what I do.”

“What does he owe you?”

Drifter smirks and boredly tosses a screwdriver into a drawer. “Take off that helm, Saint. I wanna see the look in your eyes when I’m talkin’ to you. Lets me know if a man is honest.”

The Titan does not walk around with his signature helm. It is a symbol of duty and hope among the Guardians and citizens, and he would be content to never let another see his face. Saint glances over to you, by the bunker threshold, and then back to the Drifter. But he eventually obliges, setting down the heavy armor on the table with a dull _clank!_

Saint meets the intense gaze unhurriedly, and without apprehension. The sharp Exo features accentuate his deep voice, clear and crisp and defined. “What--” Saint repeats slowly, enunciating each word with a rumble, “--does Osiris _owe_ you?”

“Haven’t decided yet, but hey, it ain't none of your business.”

“It concerns Osiris. And so it concerns me.” Saint leans forward and places his palms on the scarred workshop table. “If someone you cared for was in a potential danger, you would be concerned, too.”

The Drifter’s eyes flick away for a moment, and a moment was enough. Saint resists the urge to look behind him. “We do what we gotta, big guy,” says Drifter. “Trust him. Osiris is smarter than a lotta folks.”

“On that, I can agree.”

“Besides,” Drifter says, shrugging, “It all worked out in the end. Someone tripped over that shotgun, and it led all the way to you. Now about those spare parts-- you got any left over from deconstructing those obelisks?”

“I do not. They were either recycled or returned to the Farm.”

The Drifter swears under his breath. “Great. I don’t have the time to make a field trip.”

“I’ll go,” you say, popping in the conversation at last. “Saint can come with me.” He barely has enough time to snatch his helmet as you link arms with him and race to the main halls. The snowy footprints melt quickly but the crawling chill takes much longer to dissipate. He tucks his helm under an arm and once more studies the enthralling Haul as it drifts, tethered and lashed to the Derelict.

“It’s beautiful over there,” you say, leaning against the guard rail. “The Nine are just another piece of the puzzle of Light and Dark. Who knows what else is out there?”

“Osiris thinks he does,” Saint admits. “Or at least, that is what his reflections tell me.”

“Before I ask Ghost to transmat us out,” you turn around and say, “can I ask what’s the deal with you and Osiris?”

“The ‘deal’?”

“Osiris built an entire machine to bring you back from the dead. He went through thousands of timelines looking for you.”

Saint runs a hand over his face and blinks. “This is true. Osiris and I have known each other for a very long time.” A ribbon falls untucked from his gauntlets and he fumbles with its frayed edges. “And I worry for him.” Again, you take his hand and squeeze tightly, though it might have been a feather touch against him. He lets the helm fall and transmat away as he raises his other hand and presses it against your cheek. “I worry for my savior, too.”

“Saint?”

“Yes?”

“If I kissed you, do you think Osiris will be mad at me?”

He chuckles softly. “He will not be mad,” Saint says, stepping closer, “and neither will I.”

“ _A-hem._ ”

The Drifter stands in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. He looks annoyed.

Saint-14 glances between him and you. A blush dusts your cheeks, but there is no surprise or guilt. “Do I… interrupt something?” he asks. 

“No, but--”

“Then I would like to kiss the Guardian,” Saint continues, tilting his head. You see a twinkle of playful mischief in his eyes. “He is jealous often, yes?”

“Often, yes.”

“Have you kissed him?”

The Drifter’s stammering is ignored as you pretend to mull the question over. “No, I don’t think so.” With a slight nod from Saint, you approach Drifter with a totally innocent expression. Before he can react, you press a hand against his broad chest, arch up, and kiss him lightly on the chapped lips.

The rogue freezes completely. But with your warm mouth slotted against his, his hands hesitantly rest on your waist and he kisses you back. He’d longed for a chance to be brave, but as usual you’d taken the leap and closed that chasm between the two of you. The Drifter shuts his eyes tightly and steals your breath with sudden eagerness.

Breaking apart, he knocks his forehead against yours and struggles to breathe. Your hands feel like satin against his scarred face. The Drifter catches Saint’s eye as the Titan waits amusedly. “Does he get his rocks off by watching?” he pants.

You stifle a laugh and graze your fingers along his rough beard. “Would you mind?”

“If it’s with you, then no. Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But your secret is safe with me 'cause if secrets were like saints  
> Keep my body from the fire, hire a gardener for my grave  
> \- Hozier, "No Plan"


End file.
